


Afflatus

by SpicyReyes



Category: Left 4 Dead (Video Games)
Genre: AUTHOR AU, M/M, Meet-Cute, this is a shitty romcom plot tbqh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 03:44:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12762435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyReyes/pseuds/SpicyReyes
Summary: Nick has one week left in his author's residency. One week left in Georgia, and then he's back to staring at the walls of his own shitty apartment and despairing over his general lack of motivation to write anything at all.A bit of car trouble runs him into the path of something - someone- that might just change that.





	Afflatus

**Author's Note:**

> this is 20% self indulgence and 80% ladyredms indulgence so if youre in the tiny nellis fandom still standing just know that you owe this bit of trash content to her

Nick let the smoke of his cigarette - his third today, which marked how stressed he actually was - blow out his mouth, because an exhale was easier to get away with than a sigh when on the phone with Rochelle.

“Don’t you huff at me, Hemingway,” Ro told him, soothing voice crackling harshly through the speaker. “I’ll drive down to Georgia and whip your ass.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Nick replied easily, shifting his weight between his feet as he stared at the ugly-ass Hyundai in front of him. “And why Hemingway? Do I look like a fuckin’ poet to you?”

“Hemingway was short stories, you ignorant little shit,” she bit out. “ _The Old Man and the Sea_ , that sort of thing.”

Nick tipped his head back, taking another long drag of his cigarette. “Are you going to lecture me on what a failure I am to the craft of writing, or are you going to tell me how the fuck to deal with a broken-down car in _hick-town Georgia_ ?”

“Mechanics exist,” Rochelle said. “So does Google, so you can find them. Oh! And money, so you can pay them. I’m pretty sure that’s everything. If you need me to email you a more detailed instruction list-…”

“Don’t be a bitch,” Nick muttered. “I don’t have the damn time for this.”

“Um,” Rochelle hummed over the phone. “I’m pretty sure you have nothing _but_ time.”

“My residency ends next week,” Nick told her. “I need to get back up to Boston.”

“Your residency is _scheduled_ to end next week,” Rochelle corrected him. “Coach owns the house, and he doesn’t lend it to anyone. You can hang out there as long as you like. Especially since you’ve sent in exactly…Oh, zero words, since you got down there. A month ago. Four weeks and no writing is not a good sign for a _residency_ , Nick.”

“Being down here isn’t helping,” he said, a slight whine slipping out in his tone. “If anything, being surrounded by hicks makes writer’s block _worse_ . Everything I’ve started has been garbage.”

“So nothing new, really.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

She laughed heartily over the line, and Nick waited irritably for her to finish. “Sorry,” she said, as it tapered off - not sounding even the slightest bit sorry. “Your writing is great, I promise. Otherwise I wouldn’t suffer through your drafts to edit them. I still say you should swap genres, though.”

“Just because you like romance novels better than suspense, doesn’t mean my readers will.”

Rochelle huffed. “Your _readers_ aren’t a consistent audience. Suspense is a case-by-case genre: books that appeal to one reader won’t look good to another, and readers aren’t going to be satisfied with all of your works equally. Get a consistent audience by switching genres.”

“Yes, of course,” Nick said. “Because I want to write for a bunch of middle-aged housewives that can’t get wet without reading about a twenty-something tall, dark, and handsome coming to sweep them off their feet.”

“This argument always exhausts me, and I always try to have it anyway,” Rochelle muttered. “Fine, keep banging your head against the wall coming up with some serial killer or monster to write about, and I’ll shoot you a text with a link to the closest mechanic on Google Maps.”

Nick hung up without a sign-off, because ending a conversation with Rochelle often involved just letting her say her bit without trying to have the last word. When Coach - a heavyset, stern man who treated his publishing company more like a high school sports team, and was nicknamed accordingly - assigned him Rochelle as an editor, they’d spent _months_ having endless debates where they both tried to be the one to make the other give up, only to eventually realize they were fairly evenly matched in stubbornness.

A moment later, his phone chimed with the promised text from Ro, and he spared a moment to be grateful that at least the girl was punctual.

The link was captioned in the text with _I’m not actually your secretary, by the way!,_ so he let the gratitude sour where it sat.

The shop’s description was simply an address and the name _Reese Auto Repair._ The lack of even a simple preview image made him skeptical, but he supposed there was no helping it. Coach’s place was in a heavily rural area, and finding a big-name corporation to entrust with his wheels was not something he was willing to waste time on. Especially not for the Hyundai. That was a travel vehicle at best, and he was heavily considering dumping it completely once he got back to Massachusetts.

Not, of course, that Massachusetts was really appealing on its own. He flicked his cigarette to drop the crumpled ashes off the end, and sighed as he noted how low it was getting.

Boston was not home, and it was hard to think when everything felt _wrong._ Coach had suggested a residency as a solution: he wouldn’t have to worry about it not feeling like home, because it wasn’t meant to be. It was just a vacation, just a trip to get his head on straight and get something solid going instead of the shitty partial drafts he’d been working with.

It wasn’t working, so far. Nick’s problems weren’t ones that could be fixed with a little fresh air - if the smell of gasoline and unwashed masses could be considered _fresh -_ and three weeks of sitting in a cozy little house that was clearly originally intended as a family home just made them _worse._

Before he could think better of it, he moved his thumb across his screen, dragging down the quick menu to look at the date.

Two years.

When his wife had left him two years ago, he’d been a mess. Dropped off the grid for a bit, only to come back and be informed his publisher had ended his contract due to his absence. His agent left him in the dirt, too, leaving Nick scrambling. Eventually he had found a publisher in Coach, and focussed on nothing but churning out new content.

Rochelle was right, though: he was getting stale. Readers didn’t follow him from book to book. His writing was good, sure, but it wasn’t the kind of thing that made people flock to his titles. People had their one book from him that they liked, and that would be it. They wouldn’t give a shit beyond that.

Hard to care about someone who doesn’t even care about _himself,_ Nick figured, which was the kind of thought he usually found in the bottom of an empty bottle.

He swiped away the menu, and stamped out his smoke as he set the GPS to direct him.

Every second he stood around was a second more he was stuck in goddamn Georgia, and he had been sick of the place since he hit Savannah.

  


Nick had good instincts, generally, but he couldn’t get a read on the building in front of him to save his life.

It was a boring metal-paneled building, the most generic sort of garage car shop possible. Small, with only two open garage panels to hold cars, and a parking lot that could probably hold five or six - including the grand total of two employee cars he could see there. And they _had_ to be employees, because the place was nearly dead silent, so there clearly wasn’t anything being done at the time.

He checked the peeling vinyl lettering on the side of the building against the name on his phone, in a sort of futile effort to make it suddenly change, and declare he was in the wrong spot after all.

He climbed out of the Hyundai just in time for it to make a truly pathetic noise under its hood and promptly shut off completely.

“Great,” Nick muttered. “I guess I’m outvoted, then.”

A loud shout rose up behind him, suddenly, and he turned quickly to watch with horror as a black-haired young guy ran out of the garage area, throwing off creative non-swears as he flapped his arm about, which was covered in a thick black sheen.

 _Gasoline,_ Nick realized, before wondering if he was perhaps being pranked.

“Aw hell,” the man - boy, really - spat, shaking his arm even harder. “This shit ain’t coming off! Ellis! El! Ay, buddy, get this shit off me.”

A second kid emerged, biting his lip like he was trying his best not to laugh, and brandishing a water hose. “Just lemme spray ya, Keith. It’ll come right off, promise.”

‘Keith’, as he’d been dubbed, stepped forward and held his arm out immediately. “Okay, so gas is _out.”_

“Just use normal water balloons, man,” Ellis said, and holy _shit_ Nick had just found the two biggest morons in America. “Yer not gonna find nothin’ thick enough that ain’t gonna burn.”

Before Nick could further contemplate the surreal scene he’d stumbled into, or find a way to subtly escape, the kid with the hose noticed him.

“Hey!” He shifted toward Nick, accidentally moving the hose with him, spraying Keith across the chest in the process. “Did ya need some help, sir?”

Nick twitched. “If it involves gasoline water balloons,” he replied, dryly, “Then no.”

Ellis snorted. “Nah, that’s just Keith.” He passed the water hose off to the friend in question, before heading up to to peek at the Hyundai. “Somethin’ happen with yer car there? I can take a look for ya.” He wiped a hand off on his overalls - which were just as dirty and grease-stained as the rest of him, making it a pointless gesture - before holding it out for a shake.

Nick ignored it.

“Uh,” Ellis shifted his weight between his feet for a moment, before pulling back. “I’m Ellis, and that there’s Keith, and Paul’s out back somewhere and I think Angie is at the counter?” He rubbed the back of his neck, oil-stained fingers threading through golden brown curls at the base of his skull. “And I’m real sorry about us meetin’ ya like this, haw. We was real bored and Keith was tryin’ ta find something that would make water balloons, like, _real_ heavy, so they’d smash real simple without havin’ ta throw ‘em so damn hard or fill ‘em up so full. ‘Cept everythin’ heavy also burns, ‘round here.”

Nick blinked at him, slowly. “...I’m almost afraid to ask, but do you geniuses not have _soap?”_

There was a long pause, before Keith let out a piercing whistle and took off, shouting out for ‘Paul’ as he went.

“Shoot, suit,” Ellis laughed. “That must notta even occurred ta him. Thanks - if he didn’t find somethin’ he’d probably get himself all burnt up again, and the docs up at the hospital are still real mad about last time, cause-...”

“ _Kid_ ,” Nick interrupted. “I’m sure this is a thrilling and wonderful story, but this piece of shit,” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at his beaten-down little economy car, “just decided that it’s done with me, so I kind of need someone to _fix_ it. So if there’s anyone here that can do that-...”   
“I can fix it right up!” Ellis cut in immediately. “No problem at all, sir. I can take a look at it now if ya wanna go inside and talk ta Angie? She’s got all that official stuff for customers, but honestly I ain’t too worried about it. Ya probably helped us out a lot just giving Keith somethin’ ta do.”

Nick didn’t even attempt to stick around and listen to the rambling, walking into the building at just enough speed to go quickly without looking like he was running away.

Which he absolutely was, because he’d never heard so many words out of one person in his goddamn _life._

Angie, it turned out, was _old._ Nick would have pegged her around 60 or 70 if pressed, and he distinctly did not want to think about what kind of place he’d tripped over where the employees were two morons, an apparently absent third redneck, and an old woman.

She looked sort of like Keith, from the glimpse he’d caught of the kid outside, and the hair - thick, ink-black waves - was definitely the same. A grandmother, maybe?

 _Who cares?_ He thought, shutting off the overly analytical part of his brain that always wanted to pick apart people. _Just let them fix the fucking car and leave._

“Oh, lookit that,” the woman cooed, when he entered the room, like she’d just seen a toddler or a cute dog. “You sure are lookin’ fancy for our part of town, ain’t ya? Come on in, come on, let’s get you sorted. You here for a repair or maintenance?”

“Tweedle-dee and -dum out there have my car,” he told her. “And the one that _isn’t_ trying to blow up your garage is actually looking at it.”

The woman blinked, looking taken aback for a split second, before letting out a huff and a sharp whistle. “ _Paul!”_ she called, yelling into the back of the shop. “Go get your brother before I gotta whip ‘im, would you?”

‘Paul’ must have agreed and left, because Nick heard the shop’s back door open and shut, and then Angie was looking back to him. “Alrighty, then, I’ll get you those papers, get you started while we wait on my boys.”

Nick could think of few things he wanted to do _less_ then sit in one of the rickety orange plastic chairs that lined the wall by the window, but he saw no options. So, he took the paperwork clipboard when it was offered, and settled into one of the suspicious seats to fill it out.

Maybe this place wouldn’t give him tetanus or try and baptise him into their weird gun-waving ways, but just in case, he was listing Rochelle’s number instead of his own. The last thing he wanted was hick advertising filling up his voicemail.

  
  
  


“Okay, I looked at it,” Ellis announced some time later as he entered the building, wiping grease streaks off of his hands. “Can’t see nothin’ too wrong with it, just needs new spark plugs and prolly an oil change. The oil’s easy, I can do that right now, but I don’t think we’ve got any more 5/8ths spark plugs around. I’ll hafta order ‘em in.”

“What about the car?” Nick asked. “I can’t drive it right now.”

“That’s the oil bit, I think,” Ellis said. “The spark plugs’ll make a whole lotta racket, and you shouldn’t push ‘em to hard, but you can get home and back just fine. I wouldn’t go doin’ no cross-country or nothin’, but other’n that, should be good.”

No cross-country travel means no going back up north, and that was just the fucking best news Nick could have received. He dragged a hand through his hair, gnawing on the inside of his mouth to combat the desperate urge to go outside and smoke. Or just light it up inside - the place could hardly smell any worse, and if they were dying of any chemical related illness it’d come at the hands of the morons who thought gasoline would be a fun substance to douse each other in.

“How long will it take to get back up and running?” Nick asked. “My residency ends in six days and I need to get the fuck out of Georgia before my assistant -...” and God, he hoped Rochelle never heard him call her that - “...decides to strand me out here.”

Ellis pursed his lips slightly, and Nick watched his eyes dart around the room, no doubt trying to mentally add it up.

The image of a hamster on a wheel came to mind, and Nick probably would have laughed if he were less pissed off.

“I can put in an order right now,” Ellis said. “But we’re kinda outta the way, as far as deliveries go, and sometimes it takes folks a while to get stuff down here. It should be good before the end of the week, though, ‘less somethin’ gets _real_ messed up. You should be on time ta leave, if ya really need to.”

Nick took a deep, grounding breath. “I need a cigarette,” he said, watching the redneck’s mouth twitch ever-so-slightly toward a frown. “Is there somewhere you’d prefer me do that, or should I just stalk off into the woods and pray a bear eats me?”

“You can smoke outside while I change your oil,” Ellis offered. “I don’t mind it none - it’s kinda windy today, anyway, so as long as I stand downwind I’m not even gonna notice.”

Nick left that without comment, and headed out immediately, lighting up within two steps of the front door.

He took a moment to savor the first drag, letting the nicotine take away some of the tight-coiled ball of stress in his stomach that had been building since the car made its first suspicious sound.

...No. To be honest, it had been building since he heard the words _house in Georgia_ and _month-long residency_ come out of Coach’s mouth and seen that light in Rochelle’s eye that meant arguing would end badly for him.

 _Fuck this state,_ he thought to himself. _Fuck it, and everyone in it, and everything that passes through here, and everything made here, and-..._

“We’re too close ta the city, y’know,” Ellis’ light drawl cut into his internal ranting.

Nick looked to where the boy was setting up in front of Nick’s car, popping his hood again to get into the engine for the oil change.

The words finally registered fully, but they didn’t make a damn bit of sense to Nick, and he was left wondering if he missed some sort of lead-in when he was zeroed in on his cigarette.

Ellis turned to him with a slight smile, before turning back to his work. “For bears, I mean,” he said. “We’re too close ta the city. Bears like mountains and stuff. Or water, I guess, ‘cause they hang out around rivers a lot. My buddy Keith-...”

“Water balloon boy?” Nick asked, only to immediately regret having encouraged the conversation.

“Yeah, same Keith! He’s a real mess sometimes, but he’s family at this point. He’s real interestin’, even if he does get ‘imself hurt a lot doin’ weird stuff like that. Anyways, he says he got chased by a bear once when he was campin’. Except it might not have been a bear, cause he just heard growlin’, and lots of stuff makes noise like that - he was real close to this farm, too, and they keep dogs and stuff. Tractors kinda growl, too, I guess, but I don’t think you’d think a tractor was a bear if you’d ever heard either of ‘em. Which, I mean-...”

Nick had been so floored by the sudden onslaught of speech, he’d not even taken another puff of his cigarette, just held it loose between two fingers as he gaped at the hick. He remedied that then, making his exhale loud and harsh on purpose to catch Ellis mid-sentence, cutting him off. “No bears in Atlanta. Got it. Didn’t need a dissertation.”

There was a beat of silence, where Nick thought he might have _finally_ run off the brat’s endless southern charm, but no such luck. Before he could even properly relax, he was at it again.

“Do you smoke a lot?” he asked. “Sorry if that’s rude, I just...ya seemed real antsy, and I had an uncle that smoked a lot and he’d get like that when he hadn’t had one in a few hours.”

Nick let the question hang in the air unacknowledged for two full drags of his smoke before he stubbed it out, determined not to let _four_ complete cigarettes into his lungs in the same day.

Last thing he needed was to get sick in backwoods fucking _Georgia._

“No,” he said, when he found Ellis still looking to him for an answer. “I’m a one-a-day kind of guy, unless pressed. And this week? Has been pretty fucking pressing.”

Ellis _laughed,_ a light and good-natured sound that grated on Nick’s every last nerve. “Yeah, man, car trouble can do that. You said ya were in a residency, right now, right? Man, you must be busy. I’ll get ya back inta driving shape real soon, though, I promise.”

“My savior,” Nick muttered to himself, tone dry. Louder, he commented a more generically sarcastic, “I’ll have to buy you dinner.”

He didn’t expect the kid to fumble, dropping whatever doodad he’d been holding down into a crack between two engine parts and then swearing softly as he scrambled to fish it back out.

Holy _shit_ , Nick thought to himself, incredulous. The red flush to the kid’s cheeks and the way he was very firmly not looking his way - those weren’t the homophobic asshole reactions he expected to receive to such a comment in the Bible Belt part of the continental U.S.

That was the reaction of a kid who would have _liked_ that dinner invite.

“I, uh,” Ellis said, stumbling away from the engine of the car and shutting the hood again. “The oil’s changed, so ya should be good for a while...Well, except the spark plug, but I’m gonna get that. I can go put the order in now, actually. You, uh…”

The kid stared at him, eyes wide and cheeks still flushed, and something inside of Nick peeked its head up and thought _we can work with this._

He strolled forward, patting the mechanic’s shoulder as he passed, keeping the touch casual but heavy - every step measured. “I gave the lady inside my info,” he said. “She has the account to charge for whatever you have to do. Try not to rob me, kay?”

He climbed into his car as Ellis sputtered, and threw out a final offhand statement as he closed the door to drive off.

“My number’s on there, too. In case you’d rather have the dinner.”

It was deeply satisfying to watch the boy duck his head in embarrassment as he pulled out of the parking lot.

Maybe backwoods, fuck-all Georgia wouldn’t be too bad, for a couple of days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ellis has no idea what a writer's residency is btw he has Ideas


End file.
